by Bethany-Kris
“Oh.”
Connor chuckled at her lack of enthusiasm about putting the pretty flowers elsewhere than where she wanted. “Then again, as your body grows and changes over the years, somewhere like the hip or stomach might not be a great place.”
Her brow puckered. “I don’t understand.”
“Pregnancy, things like that. Weight gains and losses. Tattoos will stretch with the skin, and then they don’t have the same appeal. It’s something to consider.”
Evelyn went quiet. He assumed she was probably thinking about his suggestion, so he went about depositing the bags of clothes he had picked up for her on the couch. The women in the shops had been nice enough to do the shopping once Connor had guessed the sizes, and since he was running late on time, they’d made it quick. Evelyn had basically nothing to wear that was her own, except for that feckin’ dress he’d found her in, and whatever she’d found in his closets.
Sure, he liked seeing her in his stuff. He wasn’t going to deny that, but he figured she might like her own things. Something pretty, maybe. Lace or satin underneath the pretty things.
Or maybe he’d partly done that for himself.
He was getting good at this internal torture thing.
Finally, Evelyn spoke again, and her words froze him in place. “I can’t have children.”
“What?” Connor spun on his heel to face her, but she wasn’t staring at him. Her gaze was firmly stuck on the floor. “You can’t, or you don’t want to, love?”
Because those were two very different things.
He wasn’t sure he wanted children. But he was damn sure he could make the wee buggers. It was why he kept a pack of condoms within arm’s reach at all times. He didn’t need any babies that he didn’t want.
Sean had taught him that, just by raising a child he didn’t want.
“Can’t,” Evelyn repeated, her tone dropping back to her previous weak softness. Lifting the hem of the sweater, her fingertip grazed over her naval. “There’s a scar here, but it’s been … a few years. One of the only times I was taken from the house. He was a nice doctor, and he was quick. I didn’t feel a thing. I can’t have children, so it doesn’t matter. I wanted it on my thigh, anyway.”
Connor’s mouth was dry, but somehow, he managed to say, “All right, your thigh it is.”
Whatever she wanted.
As long as she didn’t look so sad.
“You’re not going to ask more?” Evelyn asked.
“Why push?” Connor frowned. “You’ll tell me whatever you want to, whenever you want to. You don’t need my help.”
She had already proven that.
Evelyn nodded absently, but her attention was already snagged by the bags. “Is this all mine?”
Her curiosity turned into unhidden joy as she began pawing through the many bags.
“All of it, yes.”
Then, she looked up at him. “But why?”
“You need it.”
“Yes, but—”
Connor could already see the wheels turning in her head, and he wanted to stop her before it got out of control. “No strings, no expectations. You need it, Evelyn.”
“Sasha,” she mumbled under her breath.
Ah, so they were heading back that way.
“Not to me,” Connor said as he walked out of the room. “I’m going to get something ready to eat. Make sure you have your own damn clothes on, when you come to the table.”
“Okay.”
• • •
Connor wasn’t a particularly light sleeper, but since he only slept alone, the moment he was no longer by himself in his bedroom, his sleep was gone. Call it a learned instinct from being awoken for years, only to be beaten by Sean, but Connor simply didn’t like another presence in his bedroom.
Not even a woman he was screwing.
Which was probably why he never let one spend the night.
Except, the second he woke up hearing the soft padding of Evelyn’s bare feet hitting his bedroom floor, Connor didn’t have quite the same reaction. He’d told her that he would leave the bedroom door open, though he had seriously hoped she would find comfort in having her own private space.
That was not going to be the case.
Connor wasn’t going to pretend that he minded.
Evelyn barely made a sound as she settled in beside his bed, and Connor rolled over with the same quietness, to find her sitting on the floor with her back facing him.
Weeks into her living in his home, and they were still doing this shite.
Jesus.
“Lass, what are you doing down there?”
“I don’t like to sleep alone.” Then, quieter, she added, “I don’t know how to sleep alone.”
The image of the pallet bed in the corner of the bedroom he’d found Evelyn in was burned into the back of Connor’s mind. He doubted she had slept every night in the Russian’s bed. The thought of her being there even once made him sick, he understood what she was trying to tell him. She had never been left alone in the dark to sleep, someone had always been close by, even if that person had hurt her.
Connor frowned, reaching out to smooth a hand down the back of her hair. Evelyn didn’t flinch away from the touch, but rather, leaned in for more. “You’re not going to sit your pretty arse down there all night, now. Come on.”
She didn’t move.
Connor wasn’t the type to repeat himself.
With a huff, he leaned down and wrapped his arms around Evelyn’s tiny waist, pulling her easily into the bed with him. A few simple shifts of their bodies, and he had her back tucked into his chest while her legs slid in to tangle with his. The softness of her skin was warm under the blankets, but he ignored that for a moment, focusing instead on how she reacted to his hands holding her hip while his other splayed over her lower stomach.
“Light as a feckin’ feather, you are.”
“A feather?”
Connor hummed his agreement. “Barely anything to you at all, love.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“Feathers are magnificent. There we are, love,” he murmured. “Now go to sleep.”
He expected her to untangle herself from him as she felt more comfortable in the bed, but instead, she only pushed in closer. She tightened the blankets up around her head and shoulders, until only her face peeked out when she turned around to face him in the darkness.
“Did you ever find her?” she asked softly.
“Who?”
“Kitty.”
He stiffened at the reminder of a memory he had buried. “No.”
He didn’t mention how her house had burned.
He didn’t mention how her room had been one of the only things to survive.
It was the first time she’d admitted who she was, and that she knew exactly who she was staring at, and he wasn’t about to add onto it with nonsense.
“I was holding her when he came in—I couldn’t see his face, he had it hidden. I tried to hide her under the blankets, but she ran, and scratched me, too. I wondered if she ever got out. He had to step over daidí when we left, and he didn’t close the door.”
“Declan, you mean?”
Evelyn didn’t reply.
Connor didn’t really need her to, as he could remember perfectly how the detective said Declan’s body had been found at the front door, dead from blunt force trauma, and not burned to death as someone might want them to assume.
He fully believed his father had been the one to kill his brother, and apparently take the man’s adopted daughter, but why, Connor still didn’t know. His father seemed so unaffected after the murder, never showing emotion, as he’d slowly taken control of his brother’s organization and men.
Then again, Sean was always unaffected.
Why would this have been any different?
“Do you think she got out?” Evelyn asked him again.
No, he didn’t.
He knew that to be a fact, because he had found the cat’s carcass t
ossed aside on top of a pile of rubbish as the workers pulled what remained of the house down for safety reasons. The cat had been burned, most of its hair singed off, but it had been Kitty.
Connor would never tell Evelyn that, though.
“Probably,” he said.
A long while passed before she spoke, surprising him again. “I knew who you were the moment you looked at me. I only ever knew a few people, and you were one of them. Daidí didn’t let others around, so I knew it was you.”
“Why not say then?”
“Because you’re just here to pass me on, like all the other times. No one can keep me; I don’t belong to them.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Connor said. “Or why you’re here.”
Evelyn didn’t look like she believed him. “I’ll be passed on again, Connor. I always am.”
“You’re wrong.”
He’d prove it.
Evelyn sighed. “I don’t think so.”
He chose not to argue with her, but only because he could see the exhaustion in her eyes staring back at him. She was knackered, and they could have this conversation—and all the others they needed to have—on another day.
“Sleep,” he demanded, letting the pad of his thumb graze over her cheekbone.
Evelyn turned into the touch, her lips skimming the skin of his digit, and then his palm, with surprising softness.
He wasn’t used to this.
He didn’t know how to do this.
“I adapt between men,” she said so low he damn near didn’t hear it. “If he beats the hell out of me, I learn to like the pain, so it no longer works. If he’s more inside his head, playing games there, I play by his rules to get what I need just the same. Better not to fight, but to be smart, to win.”
“What’s there to win in that sort of situation, Evelyn?”
“My life. I learned that every man can be manipulated by giving him exactly what he thinks he wants. It’s all I know.”
Connor wasn’t entirely sure why she was telling him this, but he had news for her. “You’ll fail for the first time, trying to find a game to play with me. Especially, if you think you need to win like the others.”
“You’re not like the others.”
“I’m not the others,” he corrected.
“What if I get passed on again?”
He sighed. “No one passed you on to me to begin with. I took you. Sleep, lass.”
For a long while, she was quiet and still.
“Sleep,” she agreed.
Connor guessed they would figure the rest out over time. “Yeah, sleep.”
• • •
“Why are you shaking like a leaf, lass?” Connor asked.
“I don’t know.”
He sprayed antiseptic on Evelyn’s bare upper thigh, and then wiped her smooth skin down with a paper towel. His black, latex gloves slipped on easily before he went about testing his kit, and readied his machine.
“I’m not going to feck it up too badly,” he half-teased.
Evelyn’s stare caught his, and she held it strong as she replied, “I’m not worried about that.”
“Not even because I’m doing it all freehand?”
“No.”
Connor smirked. “Most people don’t trust artists to work freehand. They want a transfer to make sure it’s perfect.”
“It’s not that.”
“Pain, then?”
Evelyn laughed a tinkling sound. “Yeah, a little.”
“It’s a needle driving into your skin repeatedly and fast for at least four hours,” Connor said, shrugging, “it’s going to hurt a wee bit, love.”
She sighed. “It’s not that it’s going to hurt. You know what, never mind. Let’s just go ahead and start.”
The nervous lilt in her words couldn’t be hidden, and while Connor wanted to press her for more information on what exactly was making her feel that way, he decided to go ahead and start. It was what she wanted, after all.
Setting his tattoo machine aside, he picked up a black marker and set about freehanding the outline of what would eventually be a near-perfect match to Evelyn’s drawing of the gardenias. He only wanted to have the basic shape, and he would do the rest by sight, from the shading to the details.
He had her drawing at his side on the couch—a reference to go back to and keep track of where he was mentally—while she was resting on the glass coffee table. She used her elbow to prop her body up, while her legs sprawled along the glass top.
He wanted her to relax, but it wasn’t happening. Even the marker stroking black lines across her skin seemed to have her trembling ever so slightly.
Connor tossed the marker aside, and shot Evelyn a look. “Are you sure this is what you want to do, lass?”
“Yes.”
“Then you need to chill.”
Evelyn let out a slow exhale, and drummed her fingers against the glass. “I’ve gotten tattooed before, you know.”
Connor picked up the marker again and continued his task. “I saw the stars. They matched the ones the Russian had on his chest. Tell me about them.”
“What is there to tell? Ownership.”
“I think there’s more to it than that, Evelyn.”
“Sometimes, property needs to be marked for safety reasons—or that’s what was told to me,” she said dully.
Connor’s teeth gritted so hard, his molars ached. “Aye, well, name the day, and I’ll cover the nonsense for you.”
She smiled slightly. “Oh?”
“Name the day, love.”
“How many tattoos do you have?” Evelyn asked.
She’d seen him naked, so he wasn’t sure if she was asking to delay her tattoo, or because she didn’t pay attention. “Too many to count.”
“I’m sure you know the number.”
Connor chuckled darkly. “Fifty-two, although most have been turned into full sleeves of work over time.”
“Who did them?”
“Different people I know or met over the years. I did a few myself, when I was first learning and didn’t have a test subject. Are you wasting time?”
She took another deep breath and said, “I’m good, you can start anytime.”
He didn’t question her, simply picked up his kit, dipped the needle tip into the vat of black ink, and got to work. The buzzing of his kit drowned out most sounds as he leaned in closer to keep his focus on the line at hand. He expected Evelyn to react to the needle driving into her skin, but she barely moved at all. If anything, as he dragged the line along the first flower, and watched prickles of blood bubble up through the black ink, her legs relaxed under his touch and work.
A few more seconds ticked by, another stroke to make the outline of the half of a petal thicker, and he grabbed for the water and antiseptic mixture to spray and wipe.
This was Connor’s happy place, if he ever truly had one. There was nothing quite like taking a piece of art, and making it permanent onto someone’s body. Especially one as beautiful as Evelyn’s. She had on a loose tank top, and a pair of black lace knickers that barely covered the cheeks of her arse, which quite frankly, were doing him no favors in the focus department.
What it did afford him, however, was the ability to see other spots on her body that he could mark up. Places where he could put something else and color up her canvas with any kind of art she wanted him to.
Before he realized it, Connor had put in a good thirty minutes of time, and had one of five gardenias outlined almost entirely. The outlines would be the fastest, and quick touchups to fill in any spots that might need it wouldn’t take long at all. It would be the shading and details of the flowers that would take the longest period to finish.
It was only when he had stopped to give his hand a break, and then started again on the outline of the second flower, did Evelyn finally move for the first time. Her thighs tightened together suddenly, and the movement damn near caused his needle to slip off course.
“Stop moving,” Connor said,
his one hand curving around Evelyn’s thigh to squeeze gently as he brought down the needle again, “or you’ll be the one feckin’ this up, love.”
“Yep.”
He stopped again, the buzzing of his machine quieting as he released the trigger and glanced up. Maybe it was the breathless tone of her agreement that had caught his attention, or even the way her thighs tightened again as her muscles clenched.
Evelyn’s eyes stayed closed, but Connor knew the moment he looked at her face—he didn’t need to see her eyes to know exactly what was going on with her. He’d thought the nervousness she’d shown was because of the pain of the needle, as most people didn’t prefer pain. He’d assumed like most, she would slip into a sort of meditation where the sting stopped hurting, and she focused on something else.
He was wrong on all accounts.
Well, mostly.
It was the pain that had made her nervous, clearly, but not because it would hurt. Rather, her nervousness had come, likely because of how she would react to the pain and be unable to hide it.
Her lax lips, pinked cheeks, and flushed skin screamed at him. And when her eyes finally did open? Blown, full pupils, dilated with pleasure, stared back at him.
She liked it. Not in the way some did, where tattooing and pain walked hand in hand as an almost therapy of sorts. No, Evelyn really liked it. Her expression was damn near euphoric, and Connor couldn’t once bring a memory to mind of a client who looked similar to the way Evelyn did in that moment.
Had he been between her thighs, eating her cunt like a starved man finding water for the first time, and then stared up at her, he had no feckin’ doubt her expression would have been the same.
Beautiful.
High.
Sinful.
Perfect.
Hadn’t she told him the other night in his bed that she’d learned to cope with things like pain by learning to enjoy it? He should have listened more closely.
Connor cleared his throat, setting his machine at his side on top of a clean paper towel as he tried to ignore the throbbing of his growing cock. Evelyn watched him through her lowered lashes, her tongue peeking out to wet her lower lip as her fingernails drummed against the glass.
“You should have told me that’s what it was before we started,” Connor said.